Inspired by this piece by the lovely @dreamer-in-sleep on her writeblr @whimsical-birdie . Go check it out if you haven’t yet!
An eternity ago, as a young, lonely girl who desperately wanted friends of her own, you saw a quote that resonated deeply within you.
It said: “Friends are like stars, they come and go, but the ones that stay are the ones who glow.”
It spoke to you, the little girl who dreamed of fantasies, of friends so inseparable that you would be soul-bonded to each other, the Dog Star in each other’s firmament.
And so, you decided, that one way or the other, you would forge friendships and connections, through your ideas, your words, and your dreams.
And that for someone who needs a star that glows, you will give them your light, wholeheartedly.
So you began writing, finding solace in friends born out of a shared imagination, of legendary writers (and, if you’re flattering yourself, a little bit of your own flights of fancy as well).
At first, all seems well. There are people who love the words you weave, people who want to talk to you. And for the little girl who spent years of her life lost and alone but for her beloved parents, it is a fresh, bustling new sky, galaxies adorned with beautiful stars.
Friends are like stars, you tell yourself, talking to your newly made friends, held close to your heart. The ones that stay are the ones who glow.
You laugh, glorying in the adorned, glittering beauty of the expansive skies that seem limitless.
In your quest to be the star that glows, you give them all you can. Your time, your words, your heart. Your tears and laughter. You tell stories of theirs to your father, the unblinking, steady, North Star of your sky.
He glories with you, rejoices in your joy. Yet he adds a note of caution. He knows his daughter, you see, far better then you had, back then. He knows that she is innocent, and has too soft a heart.
In your joy and your glee, you take his hand still, but laugh his caution away. “I trust them,” you say. “I trust their friendship, and I trust mine. You have my heart forever, but they have a share of their own.”
In your joy and your glee, you forget.
You forget that the sky, too, has a limit. And stars that glow incandescent, are often too bright to hold. That words sometimes, are not a binding soul-bond, but less substantial then wind.
Riding high on the euphoria of having a firmament of your own, you glory in every second of it. Seconds that, unbeknownst to you, are ticking away, slow and steady, the sands of time eroding the stars you created in your mind.
Because remember that you wanted to glow? To give all of yourself that you can? You stayed yourself, open and earnest, but those you gave your heart to grew. They grew mature, and had no space in their skies for a little girl who dreams of ideals and stars that glow. In their mature, calm light, you shone too bright, you were too much. You hurt their eyes.
One star fades out, and then another. You seek solace in those you think still remain, laying your heart bare. You can only watch bewildered when they, too, hurl accusations at you, of long-term, manipulative, emotional abuse, out of a single sentence expressing your pain.
It slowly sinks in, as your cherished firmament slips through your hands. Perhaps you are the problem, that you shone so bright, that you brought so many together, bound initially by the fact that you knew them, now bound anew in the fact that you mean little and less to them. (Oh, they say still that they love you, but you do not understand, what sort of love is this, that they’d break you into pieces, knowing they do so?)
You pick up the pieces, wondering if it is worth it, after all, if there is so little worth in you, that you have next to no one who is yours after all. One glance North is all it takes to wear a smile that hides your tears, because there He shines, your North Star, clear and bright, and yours.
You cling to him, evermore, picking up the pieces, knowing that he loves his daughter’s innocence, her laughter, her thoughts that make her different and unloveable to so many. Knowing that is enough for you, at that moment, to claw at the reserves of courage to go on. Perhaps friends are but shooting stars, you muse, here one day and gone the next, while your father, your greatest gift, is he who stays, he who glows, who laughs at your light and holds you close.
But you are your father’s daughter and you will not give up, not be the reason a tear shines in his beloved eyes.
So you dare to hope anew, to inch close. To stars new, to friends once more.
Hope shines in your eyes, innocence too, innocence they could not root of you, because it is a part of what makes you who you are. Perhaps that is all you can do. Cling to who you are. Friends you shall find, and perhaps they will stay, but you have your North Star for yourself till the end of your days.
(My heartfelt thanks to @hum-suffer @themorguepoet @vishnavishivaa @abstractmarshmallow @selkiesstories @starlightasteria @chaanv @chairoses and @whimsiquix for being there during various parts of this admittedly rocky journey of putting myself back together!)
Dr. Adrian Everheart would himself say that he is one of the luckiest people in the world. A fulfilling career at a young age, a name that commands respect, a loving mother. What more, he would ask with a smile, would a man want?
Nothing more. And yet, as time goes by, all the happiness in his life seems to be slipping away, lost in the ghosts of the past.
For @hum-suffer as a really, really late birthday present, but a timely Christmas present!
This is about 1.5 K words, therefore I am putting it under a cut.
I hope you enjoy this hastily written little piece and would like more of it!
Myrcellla hates her skirts. She always hates them, but never more than now, running behind her little brother. Tommen’s legs are tubby still, unlike hers, but these skirts of hers ruin it all the time.
Light gently heralds dawn, and Myrcella has to work to keep the sound of her steps down, lest one of the servants hear and tell mother of this. Mother always stresses the importance of curtailing one’s baser emotions and abhors the sight of tears.
But Tommen is her beloved younger brother, unlike Joffrey the terror, so she dares to raise her voice, even if it is only once. “Tommen!” Myrcella is lost for comforting words to follow his name, never having heard much of them. She resolves to try, nonetheless.
While she had been casting for words and for ways to keep her balance, she’d nearly lost sight of him. He bumps into a shadow which clinks of armor, and Myrcella winces. Mother will definitely know of this.
“Merda inferna,’- Myrcella has to giggle in spite of herself, for she knows enough to understand that those were curse words, not suitable for children. She wonders who has the consideration to swear in High Western, even when they sound quite tired and sleepy, when she recognises the speaker.
“Your Grace?” Tommen abandons all pretense of manly composure once he looks up and sees their uncle. “Uncle Jaime!”
Uncle Jaime holds Tommen close, wrapping him in his cloak, uncaring of his helm dropping from his hands. He finds a moment to give Myrcella a small smile. “What is the matter? What are you and your sister doing here at this time? Do you”- He’s saved from the trouble of asking further when Tommen, sniffling, mumbles, “Bad dream. Joff knifed Lady Boots. Again.” Uncle Jaime frowns. “Lady Boots?” “She is his cat,” pipes in Myrcella, trying to help.
“Joff knifed her?” He sounds almost horrified, something she had not expected from Uncle Jaime, for she thought he agreed with Mother on everything, and Mother was proud of Joff, no matter what.
“Joff did!” exclaims Tommen. “And mother was not even angry…she said he’s growing into his manhood. Is that what manhood is, uncle?” “It most definitely is not.” Uncle Jaime’s tone is clipped, curt. Tommen flinches. Myrcella takes a step, about to stand between them lest Uncle Jaime raise his hand to her brother against all reason, but Uncle Jaime sighs. “I am not angry at you,” he tells her brother gently. “I will have a word with Cersei, ensure the both of your safety, rest assured of that.” His words ring true, and Myrcella relaxes.
He does have a word with Mother. Myrcella can hear her mother’s voice shouting clearly, for all that the Septa tutting at her poor stitches is trying to distract her. “Remember that you are a knight of the Kingsguard, Ser. And they are my children. How dare you suggest that I am remiss! I am their mother, and I know best!” Uncle Jaime’s voice is too low to be heard, but the slap that follows rings clear, so loud that even the Septa drops her stitches. Mother’s voice stutters, lowered all of a sudden. “J-Jaime, listen…” she trails off. “Your Grace is too kind,” she hears Uncle Jaime’s voice reply, cool and smooth, lilting as always. “I see I must needs speak to His Grace.”
When Myrcella is able to hear Uncle Jaime’s footsteps, she too, tries to look as immersed in her stitches as the Septa does. She does not know what else to do.
However, Uncle Jaime is in front of her, facing the septa, and she dares to take a little peek up at him. He’s as charming as ever, smile wide on his face, beneath his helm. He manages to winkle Myrcella from her Septa for a while, bowing gallantly to both of them. The Septa actually blushes, and Myrcella giggles as he sweeps into another bow, this one only for her. “May I seek the honour of your company, your Grace?” he asks. Myrcella manages to remember her courtesies. “The honour is mine, good Ser.” She tries her best to sound grown up, but evidently she is not very successful, because Uncle Jaime laughs. Myrcella finds that she doesn’t mind. She likes hearing Uncle Jaime laugh.
It is only when they are on their way to the White Sword Tower that Myrcella realises she still has her mess of stitches clutched in her hands. That, however, is secondary. First, she needs to make sure uncle Jaime is fine. “Uncle Jaime,” she whispers. He stops. his steps in step with her own. “Yes?” “Are you…alright? Mother-she didn’t-she didn’t hurt you very badly, did she?”
Uncle Jaime looks startled for a moment. Then he laughs once more. “No, not at all. I’m quite used to it, to be honest. It’s nothing to worry about, ‘tis just a sibling spat. I am as I always am, Princess.” He doesn’t seem to be lying, but Myrcella doesn’t understand. Only Joffrey hit her and pulled at her hair, wasn’t that wrong? She shakes her head. He seems comfortable enough, so he must be right, she decides. She smiles back at him. “Cella,” she replies. “I’m Cella, not Princess, not to you. You may be a Kingsguard, Ser Uncle, but I am your niece first.”
Uncle Jaime averts his eyes from hers for a moment, then kneels in front of her. “Cella it is. And I am quite fond of Ser Uncle as a title as well,” he replies, laughter in his voice, though Myrcella doesn’t think she imagined the sheen in his liquid green eyes. “Alright, Ser Uncle it is!” she replies, offering no further comment. Men don’t like to be seen when they are emotional, and for so fine a knight, surely it must be even more of an insult.
His eyes are on her messy stitches. He snorts a little. “And what masterpiece, pray tell, is this?” She blushes. “Septa despairs at my stitches” she mumbles. “Is that so? Well, we can’t have that, can we? I suppose that is what we will do.” “What will we do?” she asks, curious. He winks at her. “Wait and see,” he replies, as they ascend the stairs to his chambers.
Uncle Jaime fiddles with his drawers, clearly looking for something. “Ah!” his quiet exclamation is triumphant. “I only have red, gold and white threads,” he tells her casually, looking once more at the mess she’d stitched, “but we can salvage most of this quite quickly.” Myrcella knows that she’s wide eyed. “You can stitch?” she exclaims. Uncle Jaime smiles with a shrug. “Quite a fair bit,” he replies, “and I suppose I’ll only get better with practice.” “How did you learn?” She is intrigued. She had thought that knights scoffed at womanly pursuits. “That is a story for another day, Cella,” answers Uncle Jaime. His deft hands unpick her stitches quickly. “We don’t have much time, do we? Your Septa would probably return soon from her prayers, and you will have to be returned to her tender hands.” She scoffs. “Your hands are far more tender than hers.” she grumbles. He raises an eyebrow, his eyes comically wide. “Mine?” he whispers, affecting awe, keeping his hands at the level of her eyes. “Surely you don’t mean these callused palms.” She nods, as regal as she could, and presses a kiss on each palm. “These indeed, Ser Uncle.” She answers with a grin. He laughs, his hands picking again at the stitches, somehow managing to straighten a few of them. “We’d make a fine troupe,” he laughs. “Unfortunately, not all songs I know are suitable for such fine ears as yours.” “Perhaps you could learn,” she ripostes.
Before he could reply, they are interrupted by a knock. “S-Ser L-Lan-Lannister?” Uncle Jaime gets to his feet, opening the door. “Aye. I’m not about to bite you, lad. Say what you will.” A boy stands without, his hair tousled, freckles standing against his fair skin. “S-Septa s-said that-that the Princess has her lessons. And-and the Lord Commander s-said that the King is in his chambers, should you wish to meet him.” Uncle Jaime nods, and turns to her. “Shall we, Princess Cella?” She puts on a sigh. “Must we, Ser Uncle?” He nods gravely. “Needs must, Princess. Fear not, however. Your knight shall be waiting for you.”
He takes her hand, pressing a kiss to it. “We would make a fine troupe!” she grins at him, her hand in his, his steps with hers, as they walk out of his room.
Note: The words Merda Inferna mean something along the lines of “damn it to hell” in Catalan, the language I base my hypothetical language of the West the most on, afaik. In my works, Jaime swears, when he does, in that language, because well, he’s around kids, I see as him doing it first for Tyrion’s young ears, and then the habit carried forward.
I am using a fairly loose interpretation of @whumpmasinjuly Day 9 prompt, by which I mean that I consider conditioning a form of playing mind games with whumpee.
This is a continuation of Embers and Shards, my spin-off, or so to speak, of Sun and Glass by @whumpflash which I have kindly been allowed to write!
The initial installment, linked here dealt with a precursor to Rena’s arrival.
This one is Rena’s first chapter in Sun and Glass from Caelon’s PoV.
Tagging @whumpwillow (I remember you liked the first part and asked to be tagged) and @whumpmasinjuly-archive with @dreamer-in-sleep
Story under the cut, with trigger warnings of slavery, conditioning, implied non-con, physical punishment, anxiety.
2. Questions and Uncertainties
He does his best to keep his head down, gaze on the floor, in front of the new lady, Master’s guest. Her eyes find him nonetheless. He has learnt to read people’s eyes by now. She is excited, amused, at the state he is in.
Excited has never boded well for him, especially with ladies. They would…they would…she is speaking to Master, trading courtesies. He pauses, trying to get a better measure of the lady.
“Back to work,” snaps Master. He cannot stop the flinch at the tone. The lady is looking at him again, eying him head to toe. It takes all his will to not shy away from her eyes, to simply go back to work, but he manages to.
What do his thoughts matter for in the end, regardless? They are without substance, as they have always been.
Without substance they may be, but they serve to bring his attention to his exhaustion, and he stumbles, the heavy trunk falling from his shaky hands.
He tenses, bracing for the inevitable punishment, Master’s warning resounding in his mind. Master had known he would be sloppy.
He tries to reduce the mess, to reduce the magnitude of his error, but of course Master has already seen his sloppiness.
He just holds himself still when he hears Master’s footsteps. If there is one thing he has learnt to some extent, it is the way a punishment is taken. “How dare you make such a fool of me? I had told you time and again that you are to respect my guest. Is this what you call respect? If you presume to disrespect my guest, you will pay for it later.”
He wants to say that he’d never dare presume anything, but he knows that his Master does not want him to reply, so he obeys the implicit order too. It’s all he can do.
Master’s hand expansively gestures to him. “You see? This is exactly the sort of behaviour I meant.”
Tired, resigned fear rises him in anew. Doubtless, he will be punished worse. That is what happens, when Masters talk about such a thing as him.
“With all due respect my lord,” the lady says, her eyes still roving on him, “it doesn’t seem to be his fault. Accidents happen.”
Master gives the reply he has taught the slave by now, what to expect. Sleepless, hungry days and nights. He hates that the carelessness cannot be beaten out of him, or forced out of him. He does not want to be careless, or in pain.
He stumbles his way to the lady’s chambers, all other servants moving hurriedly out of his way. None of them ever talk to him, too afraid of invoking Master’s ire. When he enters her chambers, she makes to touch him, and he barely manages to stagger back and keep his balance. He knows what women want out of him. He cannot bear that pain on top of Master’s punishments.
Whatever the lady might want from him, her rank must be respected, so he apologises, unable to keep the stutter from his voice, his head kept steadfastly bowed.
“Wait.” Somewhere, her quiet, clear command is expected for him. The women always want to take a closer look at him. And she does exactly what he thinks she would, her eyes lingering on his face, his eyes, his dirty hair. He has to force himself to stillness, knowing what is coming.
“Look at me.” Prepared for something else, her subsequent comment takes him off guard. He manages to look at her nonetheless. Perhaps she wants to see his eyes better. Perhaps she wants to see the regret in his eyes when he apologises to her. He had not apologised properly, perhaps.
So he tries anew. “M-My lady, I’m sorry. That trunk”-
Her hand swipes near his face, and he flinches back, too afraid to pay attention to her words. She sighs, and he understands that she is displeased. He makes greater effort to pay attention to her words.
Her next question is far too unexpected for him to answer correctly, for she asks him his name.
He stutters through whatever names he remembers, before he manages to clarify that Master hasn’t named him yet. Somehow that reminds him of his unworthiness, and so he stutters more apologies. They like to hear apologies.
This lady sounds displeased, though. “Calm down,” she commands forcefully. Perhaps his voice displeased her. He has met nobles like those, before.
So he forces his mouth shut, holding still as he could for the inevitable punishment.
She does not punish him. Is that what the Master meant by strange?
Instead, she asks another question.
“Caelon,”she asks, her voice soft, the word unfamiliar. Is that what her people call a slave? “Do you know who I am?”
Heart in his throat, he tries to think, to answer correctly. He cannot recognize her, though. All he can think of are the women who would come in the night, before, to take their pleasure of him. He does not think she would appreciate being told that.
So he tells her what truth he could, shaking his head as firmly as he knows how. “My lady,I…can’t. I’m sorry, I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I know I’m not good for anything, please”- In his jumbled thoughts, he finds the desperation to plead. He does not think he can stand through more punishment.
Somehow, she takes mercy on him. “It’s fine,”she says, voice soft and curiously blank. “You can go.”
Yathamathi: According to the best of one’s knowledge and/or belief (Sanskrit)
Another WIP introduction!
This is one of my suddenly occurring ideas: What if a military physician is taken hostage?
Keeping that idea as the base, in a country with a one-party electoral democracy, a special airforces officer and medic (Arjun) is taken hostage by a terror outfit along with his pilot (Krishn). Arjun’s grandfather, Devavrata Kauraveya, is the President of the country, with his father, Pandu Kauraveya, expected to succeed him.
Do Arjun and Krishn follow the duty they are meant to? How is their behaviour perceived as in their country? How do they return home? are the themes this fic would probably explore.
It will be written as a series of first person PoV chapters from the PoV of various characters.
Thanks to @whumperofworlds for the germ of the idea (your ask about hostage situations kicked this off in earnest! I think I haven’t answered said ask yet, will get to it!)
Tagging @hum-suffer @hinsaa-paramo-dharma (I remember discussing a possibility of a PoW medic with you long ago) @blue-lotus333 (You might like this fic) @abstractmarshmallow and @themorguepoet (You’re basically my co-writer on this one, buddy!)
I’ll cap this post off with the expected trigger warnings: Hostage Situation (duh), physical abuse, emotional hurt, major character injury/illness, character blaming themselves, discussion of someone being a traitor.
As usual, comment here, or send an ask or a message if you want to be tagged!
The actual fic scenes will be under the cut. This is world building of a sorts before the cut.
Arjun’s character here is very, very removed from canon (obviously, seeing that canon is an epic that is more than a 1000 years old) so I am only going to explain whatever is relevant to this story.
The milieu I am going for is an alternate universe of Delhi (India’s capital, in case anyone does not know) where the Kauraveya family are quite influential politicians for the most part. Arjun is the cherished youngest son of the family, very close to his mother, having lost his father as a child. He is a decorated war hero, known for both his battle prowess and his gallantry. He is an old school gentleman, so to speak. He values all human life, he prefers to avoid loss of life as much as possible. He married his wife, Subhadra, for love. Her brother, Krishn is his best friend. At the beginning of this story, he is escaping from a place he barely remembers.
Satyaka, the PoV for the prologue, is distantly related to Krishn, and by extension, Arjun’s mother Pritha, (Krishn is canonically Arjun’s first cousin, in this story, their blood relationship may be a little more removed). His son, Yuyudhana, not mentioned in this chapter by name, is Subhadra and Krishn’s friend here. I think that’s all the background needed for this story for now, but if something is unclear, please feel free to DM or ask me!
Trigger warnings: Panic attacks, discussion of intravenous drug use, disoriented character, brief emeto mention, distressed character.
Tagging @blue-lotus333 and @whither-wander-whump
Please ask or message if you want to be added to or removed from the tag list!
There are a few Sanskrit terms used here, meanings given below:
1. Pitr-shraadh: Shraadh is a Hindu ritual, in which one honours the dead. Pitr-shraadh specifically, as far as I know, is a ritual in which one honours their ancestors.
2. Pooja: Prayer ritual
3. Mata: Mother (respectful)
Prologue
Satyaka Varshney, on the way to the capital
I click the ignition off, glancing cursorily by my side at my son, fast asleep. I suppose a small break wouldn’t hurt.
Cracking my aching knuckles, I open the car door, sliding out and stretching. The wind is rustling through crowded forest greenery, fresh and clean. An unfamiliar thump directs my gaze to my son once more, still peacefully sleeping in the car. Keeping him in the line of my sight, I edge forward.
That doesn’t turn out to be a very wise thing to do in the pitch black of the depth of night, as I knock into something. Blindly reaching out, my hand hits solid flesh.
I can feel the flinch beneath my fingers, hear the faintly clicking, chattering teeth.
‘S-so-sorry. Plea-please don’t-don’t-they-I’- I blink. In front of me is a young man, hardly visible in the dark.
Whatever little I can see of him, he is obviously scared, shaking, streaks of mud on his torn shirt, what once used to probably be military camouflage. ‘I’m sorry, s-sir.’ He says, cringing away from me. ‘Hey there, young man,’ I whisper, the boy putting in my mind a spooked horse. ‘It’s alright. I’m not going to turn you in. You on the run from those outlaws down there?’ ‘Out-outlaws? Sir?’ The frank confusion in his voice has me backtrack. What the hell has happened to this young man?
‘Never mind that. Where are you coming from? Do you have anywhere to go to?’
He blinks. Looks pensive for a moment, then, face tight and eyes on the floor, he whispers, voice hoarse, ‘I…I am not sure, sir. I don’t-I don’t know what this place is. Where are we?’ I sigh. ‘Are you alright?’ The boy seems disoriented enough to warrant that insipid question. He looks down at himself, then musters a smile as he looks back up, still not meeting my eyes. ‘I think so, sir? I will be.’
‘You sure don’t look it,’ I mutter, shucking off my coat, looking critically at him, the ceaseless shivering, the remnants of bloodstains on his face. I hand the coat over to him. ‘Here. You look like you need it. And this place isn’t safe. Would you like to come with me?’ His gaze skitters away from me. ‘I-thank you sir, but I’m dirty. I wouldn’t want to be a burden.’ He’s clearly making effort to pronounce his words right. ‘And you aren’t. I have a son your age. I’d want him to be safe, just like I’m sure your family wants you safe and sound.’ I wrap the coat around his shaking shoulders. ‘There.’ He flinches away from my touch. ‘Easy. It’s alright. Can you walk?’ He nods. ‘Yes. I will. Where’- ‘I’ll tell you. Follow me.’ He does that obediently enough, although he looks over his shoulder for every step he takes. From what I can understand of his situation, I don’t blame him for the same.
Once we are leaning against the hood of my car, I probe gently. ‘Look, kid, I want to help you. Honestly. But I can’t do that if you don’t tell me anything.’ Frustration echoes in his voice as he replies ‘I am grateful, sir, but I really don’t-I remember, I had been on duty. I had asked leave from my senior so that I could do the pitr shraadh. I finished the pooja. I drank some water that was in my canteen, and then…then my head spun. Some people were trying to-to drag me off. I don’t know why, I’d never seen them before. I fought as best as I could. But I lost. That’s all I know. Then I woke up shaking on some unknown floor. I escaped as soon as I could. Honestly, sir, I’m not-I don’t lie. I don’t. You’ve done so much…I wouldn’t.’ His shivering increases as he finishes his speech, and he stumbles. ‘Whoa!’ ‘I…sorry, sir. I’m dizzy.’ ‘I can see that, kid. How long has it been since you ate?’ I ask, keeping a firm hold of his hand. He shakes his head. ‘Okay. Okay. I think these outlaws did you in. We’re at the edge of their outpost. You seem to be real lucky that they haven’t caught you yet. Tell me where you want to go, ‘kay? I’ll see if I can help you there.’ ‘To the capital. The Kauraveya Mansion.’ ‘You’re one of ‘em, huh? Some distant coz of mine married into that family. The younger son, the legitimate one, that is. I remember attending her wedding, barely married myself, too besotted by my own wife, with eyes for nought but the food. I hear the lady is mighty beautiful, though.’ He smiles, I can see the flash of teeth in the dark, feel the tense pull of his shoulder relax slightly under my hand.
‘The most beautiful in the world,’ he says, softly. ‘She is my mother. I’ll tell her that I heard the food in her wedding was really nice.’ I laugh. ‘You’re one of the Vrishni clan, then, sir? Krishn said that his clan is huge.’ ‘Aye. So you’re one of us, too, in a way.’ He shrugs. ‘I suppose so?’ ‘Of course you are. However distant, ain’t a matter. Once a connection is established, it’s there forever. You know Krishn?’ I shake my head. ‘Course you do. Never mind that, come in,’ I open the door of my car. ‘Get a bit warm, have somethin’ to drink. Wouldn’t want you to collapse like that again. Should coz find out her kiddo fainted on my watch, I’m sure she’d have my head.’ He laughs, soft and sincere. ‘Her name is Pritha. I’m Arjun. And you’re probably right, mata is very…protective.’ ‘As she very well should be, a handsome young lad like you.’ He looks down. ‘Is that a blush? I see you aren’t used to teasing yet.’
He peeks into the car. ‘Careful there. My young bison is snoring in here.’ ‘Dad. ‘M not a bison of any sort! And who’s this?’ ‘Cousin o’ yours. Arjun Kauraveya, I take it?’ He nods. My son starts upright. ‘Krishn’s brother-in-law? His best friend? Whoa. I met their family a few days ago. Both the ladies were…pretty distraught.’
The boy at my side closes his eyes, obviously affected. ‘My fault,’ he whispers. I cuff my idiot of a kid. ‘Motor mouth, can’t you think of what you speak?’ I hiss at him, jerking my chin at the distraught younger man.
‘And you.’ I turn to Arjun. ‘None of that, kid. You didn’t ask to be captured like that.’ ‘No, but’- ‘Hey, you’re gonna go home, alright? They’re yours to take care of.’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking,’ my son murmurs. Arjun shakes his head. ‘It’s alright…you were honest, thank you for that.’ My son shakes his head in return. ‘No. It’s not like you ran off on your own. You were on duty, right?’ Neither I nor Arjun correct him, leaving him to his ignorance. ‘You’re doing your best, that’s all you can do.’ The other man doesn’t look very convinced but nods his head.
I hand him a bottle of water. ‘There you go. Drink up.’ His hand shakes as he takes the bottle. I drank the water in my canteen, I remember him saying. And then my head spun. Small wonder he is scared. I take it back, drinking a gulp myself. ‘There. It’s safe, son.’ His gaze flies to mine, finding the floor again in a flash. ‘I’m’- I cut him off. ‘Nothin’ to say sorry for. Given what you’re comin’ from, it’s perfectly understandable.’
Once he’s had the water, I gesture to a sandwich. ‘Get some food inside ya, ‘kay? I can drive you to the capital, sure, we gotta go there, too. Not your house, of course not, but Lutyen’s street should work? He’s wide-eyed, staring at me as if afraid to believe. ‘Sir..I can’t ask that’- ‘Nah, you ain’t askin’. Don’t worry about it. Go on, eat the thing.’
He tries. A bite later, he stops. ‘I don’t think I can,’ he says, sounding guilty. ‘What’s the matter, kiddo?’ ‘I might be si’- he’s cut off as he gags, shoving his head out of the window. ‘Whoa. Okay. Want me to stop the car?’ He shakes his head jerkily. ‘N-no. It’s ‘kay.’
‘Wait.’ My son’s voice is cool. ‘Yeah?’ Arjun asks. ‘Those marks on your arm…did you do that? Are you an IV user? Is that why you’re confused?’ ‘W-what?’ ‘Hey!’ I interject, the kid clearly struggling to understand the pointed question. ‘He was kidnapped, bud, he didn’t’- ‘No!’ It’s the loudest I’ve heard his voice. ‘No, I wouldn’t. Mata hates that kinda stuff, I don’t even drink.’ He shakes his head. ‘I didn’t do this, please believe me.’
I glare at my son. ‘Apologize. Seriously, is this the kind of question you ask?’ Arjun blanches. ‘I-I didn’t, but…they held me down, I’m-I’m remembering.’ His voice is blank. His eyes are flaring wide as they turn to me. ‘Could they have drugged…’ he trails off. ‘They might have,’ he answers himself. ‘Maybe that’s why I feel sick. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I fought, I did, I did, I’-
‘Hey.’ My son intercedes as the younger man’s breathing quickens. ‘I’m sorry, alright? I didn’t know. If what you say is true, and I believe it is, you are not to blame. Take a breath, okay?’ He does. ‘Good. Now, just get it out, what you remember. Maybe we can help you piece it together.’ ‘Yeah…’ he murmurs, shaky. ‘Okay. I…oh. Oh, no. No, no, no. No…’ His voice falters and breaks as he repeats a frantic denial. ‘What happened?’ I ask, trying to break him out. ‘I-I broke my vow, I broke it!’ He’s vitriolic, sheer loathing in his voice. ‘God, I broke it…How could I have done it?’ ‘You did what you had to survive, kid, it’s-you can make it better, okay?’ ‘No,’ he says, his voice a knell of grief. ‘What I did…it’s unforgivable.’
The pictures are, from top to bottom and left to right, respectively from Vel Muruga Vel on Instagram, Devar Creations, unknown source (probably Life OK the TV channel?), Rames Harikrishnaswamy, unknown source and Unsplash. If anyone finds the sources I couldn’t, please let me know!
Tagging the mod of the event @allegoriesinmediasres
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